Hangnail
by Victory32
Summary: Set Pre-Season 6. Sam's out of the cage and moving on with life the only way he knows how, but things are about to get complicated. It never crossed Sam's mind that something as mundane and ordinary as a car wreck would force him back into his old role. Angsty!Sam, Hurt!Dean. Rated T for language.
1. Chapter 1

Yeah, I still don't own anything associated with this show... just felt like playing a little cat and mouse with the characters. Truth is when I'm bored I write, and I guess you could say I've been bored this week. I'm a big fan of constructive criticism and so fourth, so if you would leave me a comment. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

**CASS**

~Now~

May 2010

THEY WEREN'T HIS CHARGES ANYMORE. Hadn't been for quite some time now, but that didn't mean he hadn't checked in on them from time to time. He'd spent too many hours with Sam and Dean Winchester over the last few years to know that leaving them completely on their own was seriously misguided at best. Truth be told, he'd felt compelled to check in at first, out of a sense of loyalty, like he'd owed it to the Winchester brothers for everything they had done. For everything they had suffered.

But as the days passed and turned to weeks it became apparent that neither one of them was functioning at a level they'd survive for long, so he began checking on them daily out of a sense of duty, just to make sure they were both still alive. _Or more accurately_, he reflected, _to make sure the two of them were at least breathing—because as far as living was concerned neither one of them were really doing that. _

CASTIEL WATCHED IN UNCOMFORTABLE SILENCE, an invisible force perched amongst the clutter that filled the rafters of Lisa Braeden's garage. It was a Friday evening, just after six. Another day of overtime for an already overly weary Dean Winchester.

Below him he watched as Dean shuffled through the contents of a junk drawer, heard a low curse, and startled as Dean threw his hands up slamming the drawer shut.

He watched as Dean turned, running a hand through his hair, his eyes wide—wild. Then just as suddenly as the anger had arrived it diminished, easing off of the young man's face as he took in a deep breath. From his vantage point Cass could see the sudden regret that swept across Deans face as he stared at the tarp covered car just before him. Oh no, _Don't do this to yourself Dean, _he whispers knowing that his wishes will fall on deaf ears.

**DEAN**

~Now~

May 2010

THERE WERE DAYS WHEN DEAN RETURNED HOME from work that he found himself sitting alone in Lisa's garage staring at the tarp covered Impala. Some of those days he'd find himself smiling at the memories that were held within the car and was able to walk away without a second glance. Other days a random memory would creep up and stop him cold. He would find his feet frozen in place, stuck to the concrete floor, staring at the dusty tarp as minutes lapsed until something or someone broke his concentration or the memory ended.

More often than not, in recent weeks, he'd found himself locked in place, unable to move as the tightening in his chest overwhelmed him to the point he couldn't breathe. It was in those moments that he would unearth the Impala from its dusty brown plastic cocoon and stare hard at her as if trying to resurrect the life he'd always known. It was those days when he'd pulled back the tarp he'd climb inside, plug in an old cassette tape and let his mind fade to the past.

Friday had been one of those hard days—it was rainy and cold, and generally miserable outside. Dean was cold, tired and restless and as a result he'd retreated to the one place that could still remind him of whom he had been, who he wished he could still be, instead of the person he had become in this twisted version of his new life.

As he pulled the tarp back, he sucked in a deep breath, crawled inside the sleek black door, and closed it behind him. He leaned back and drew in the familiar smell of old leather. Instinctively he gripped at the steering wheel; the smooth surfaces where his hands had long ago worn out the leather cradled his hands. The memories of Sam in this car were relentless from the moment he is seated inside, some are good, some bad, others are in-between— but no matter what each memory is welcome.

He had done his fair share of choking up emotions since Sam had been gone, but the memories were a chance for him to close his eyes and see Sam sitting there next to him one more time.

Dean ran a hand over his face, pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He allowed his mind to run backward, replaying his life like an old fashioned film on a continuous loop. He saw himself driving down the road Sam asleep next to him in the front seat, snoring. He saw himself holding onto Sam as their father raced down the road, applying pressure to the first wound Sam had incurred during a hunt. He could still see the blood on his hands and the pale glow of his brother's skin that night. He caught glimpses of Sam sitting there next to him at various points throughout the years, smiling, laughing… his face angry, shocked and scared.

Exhaling sharply, he looked over at the empty passenger seat and closed his eyes. In that moment it's February of 2001 that comes to mind, and he's watching Sam stare down at a folded sheet of paper in his hands.

~Then~

February 2001

_ALTHOUGH THERE HAD NEVER BEEN a formal agreement spoken between the two of them, it was simply understood. Cemented into place the roles of which both of them had long honored. Dean was the oldest, the protector—Sam the baby, the protected._

_It had freaked Dean out to no end the first time Sam had even mentioned college. But the day Sam shoved an official looking letterhead in his face, eyes beaming, smile plastered to his face, Dean felt downright sick. What was he supposed to do if Sam left? If something happened to Sam? How was he supposed to protect someone who didn't want to be protected any longer?_

_In the front seat of the Impala Dean looked over at his brother. They had the heat turned up full blast, but he had to choke back the shock of Sam's announcement, and no matter what he did he couldn't keep from shaking. _

_"I actually got in Dean." Sam said breathlessly, still clutching the acceptance letter in his hand, "I have to go. You understand right?" The question cut through the air slicing right into Dean's chest. Even as Dean heard himself say yes, his voice was cracking. "You and dad—you're gonna be alright Dean. I'm gonna be alright."_

_Dean nodded. He was far from alright. He wasn't even a little bit okay. In fact he'd never been so damn scared in his life. _

_Dean stared hard through the front windshield of his Impala. The winter had been especially brutal that year. No matter where they had ended up the snow had followed, along with temperatures that had been driven well below zero on several occasions, to the point that describing this winter as 'brutal' was an understatement. But this- this was worse. _

_True to form, just when he thought the winter was coming to its end a whole new storm was brewing. _Shit.

_"I just—I can't believe it…" Sam was still staring in wonder at what was sure to become his most prized possession, "I gotta scholarship to Stanford."_

_Dean exhaled; unaware he'd been holding his breath, "Yeah Sammy." He said. "Good job."_

_For a moment they both sat silently in the Impala. _

_Dean swallowed staring out at the blinding white of the snow on the ground. How come he couldn't just be happy for Sam? Sam deserved it, he'd worked his ass off for this. But still._

_It wasn't until the reverberation of air brakes from a passing truck sounded that Dean realized Sam was staring at him. He glanced down across the bench seat. Sam's brown eyes studying him. Trying hard to gage his reaction._

_Then a distant thought emerged, and Dean shook his head as he thought of his father; this - _Sam leaving_—wasn't going to end pretty. _Sam had to know that._ Clearing his throat, he looked away, and rubbed his hands nervously together, "Sam…" he started._

_"Yeah?" Sam answered. _

_"You gonna tell dad?" _

_Sam blew out a steady even breath and slouched back into the seat. _

_Dean shook his head his eyebrows furrowing together in the middle of his forehead, "Yeah," He said. "Me either."_

_And to his credit he hadn't. Dean hadn't told his father not even when he had wanted to, part of him hoping Sam would come around to his senses sooner or later, part of him refusing to even speak the possibility of Sam leaving again because he couldn't let go of his brother. Not now. Not ever. _

~Now~

May 2010

FOR THE REMAINDER OF THE EVENING Dean had hidden out of sight from both Lisa and Ben; ducking back into the house only after dinner had been served and the dishes cleared. Even still, every corner he turned, he'd catch glimpses of them watching his movements, their concerned eyes following him from room to room. Eventually he found himself standing in the kitchen. He was hungry. But when he reached into the refrigerator it wasn't food he pulled out. Instead his hand came away with the first bottle of a six pack he'd purchased just after work. He gulped down his first beer, wondering momentarily if six were really going to be enough. Wondering if it he'd even feel a buzz, because he knew it would never be enough to clench the pain that radiated throughout his chest.

In the past he'd always enjoyed sitting down with a cold beer, but these days he was verging on becoming a full on alcoholic. Someone he couldn't even recognize.

He drained the second bottle in a few long swallows then started in on his third. As he leaned over the counter, spinning the bottle between his hands, Dean spotted Lisa out of the corner of his eye standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the door frame.

"I know you're hurting Dean." Her words were quiet as she uncrossed her arms and started across the kitchen.

"Don't Lisa." He said looking away from her, "Just don't." Every part of him, every fiber of his being hurt too damn much to have this conversation again.

As if she could read his mind, she sighed, bit at her bottom lip and looked straight at him, "I'm sorry." Lisa said, her eyes shining with tears. "I'm sorry that you feel like this. I'm sorry I can't fix what happened. I'm sorry I can't bring Sam back. And I'm sorry that I don't know what the right thing to say or do is anymore." Her movements were deliberate as she moved next to him, pulled his fingers from the grip he had around the glass bottle. "What more could you have done?" She asked.

"I don't know. Something. Anything. It was my job to take care of him. He was my brother. I should've done something."

"You can't blame yourself for this."

He lifted his head and drew back to look at her.

"And I can't keep watching you do this to yourself. Its killing you."

Dean cleared his throat wanting to say something. But what? _If Sam were still alive I wouldn't be here and you wouldn't have to watch this. _Should he tell her that all he wanted was his brother back_? Nothing else._

"You have to move on Dean."

Dean swore and ran a hand down his face, "I don't need this. I can't do this right now." Grabbing the bottle from the counter top he stepped back, turning on his heels to leave the room.

"Dean!" Lisa cried out, she took in a deep breath and encircled his wrist with her hand, "Sam wouldn't want this for you. You have to let him go."

_Let him go._

"No." _He'd tried to do that long ago he'd swore that he'd never do that again—_and he sure as hell wasn't going to back on that promise tonight.

~Then~

August 2001

_IT HAD BEEN SIX MONTHS AFTER Sam's official acceptance letter to Stanford had arrived, on a hot and dry August afternoon._

_The first thing that Dean had noticed when he entered the hotel room, beaten down and tired from finishing a hunt, was the sole green duffle bag perched against the ratty hotel bed. The second thing he noticed was the way Sam looked as he sat on the edge of the nearest bed, elbows resting casually on his thighs; hands folded in just below his chin, eyes intensely gazing over the knuckles. _

_"What is this Sam?" John Winchester had asked his voice calm and collected even as he stopped cold just behind Dean in the doorway._

_Sam stood as they had entered the rented room, his motions slow and deliberate, "I thought you'd want to say goodbye."_

_"Where do you think you're goin'?" Dean shot a look over his shoulder at his father. John knew damn well where Sam was headed. He'd found the acceptance letter in early May. Not surprisingly he'd been pissed, and Dean had spent a few hours listening to the screaming, the threatening. To his credit Sam had stood there taking it until their father was finished and then true to himself as Sam always had been—he'd thrown a few of his own words out there for their father to chew on. When the conversation was over John Winchester had assumed the situation had been resolved. And Dean had gone along with that belief, accepting it more as time wore on and Sam stopped bringing up the subject of Stanford altogether, _though in retrospect,_ Dean conceded, _he should have known better.

_And he damn sure should have known better and figured out what was coming when Sam had made up some lame excuse about food poisoning to get out of finishing the job earlier that morning. _

_"Sam." Dean's voice was cautious as he looked at his kid brother. _ _The words, _why are you doing this,_ stuck in his throat._

_But neither Sam nor John even seemed to acknowledge Dean's voice; their eyes were solidly locked on each other, one daring the other to pick a fight._

_Dean took a few more hesitant steps into the room and watched as his father followed, tossing his ammo bag on the closest bed. As he slammed the motel door behind him, John turned back to Sam jaw clenched, "You think you can make it on your own son?"_

_"Yes." Sam cleared his throat as he took a step closer to the door and added, "Sir."_

_"You really think so?" The older man challenged._

_Dean shot a sideways glance at Sam, begging him not to go through with this and for the briefest of moments Sam looked as if he was second guessing himself. Then with an even more determination Sam looked back to his father and nodded, "I know I can."_

_Dean felt his knees begin to buckle as he slumped back into the green felt chair situated near the doorway. He felt his throat too tight to speak as he sat watching the only family he'd ever known disintegrating in front of his eyes. He rocked forward lowering his head as he closed his eyes; it amazed him sometimes the toll his family had paid, how willing they were to destroy themselves all for the sake of saving others from the same fate. _

_"If you go Sam," the voice was low, thick and drawn out, "don't ever come back." _

_At that Dean's head snapped up, his eyes on his father as he tried to decide whether or not the man in front of him was being sincere. John Winchester had said and done some shitty things in his life, but this one took the cake. _

_Dean leaned forward his hands clasped between his knees. He watched as Sam's face schooled into a careful blank. "You won't have to worry about that." Sam said as he swung his duffle over his shoulder, his words landing hard on the floor of the motel, smashing into a million pieces as he looked back toward John, eyes burning, "Dad." _

_Dean watched as John pressed his fingers to his temples, watched the vein in his father's neck pulsing, "Don't call me again, and I mean it—don't you ever come back."_

_Sam shook his head, "That goes both ways." He said stalking across the room his duffle on his back._

_As Sam reached out for the doorknob, Dean felt his heart leap into his throat. "Sam?" Even if he could force himself to say something more, the words weren't coming. _

_Sam turned to him, "I'll see you around." He whispered smiling half-heartedly, "Dean."_

_The door slammed hard behind Sam, rattling the lone picture that hung on the wall and Dean was on his feet in an instant, "Dad," he murmured, "_What are you doing?"

_John swallowed, "Let him go Dean." He said, "Just let him go."_

And he'd tried. _ Honest to God he'd tried to let go of Sam that night. But he never could live with it. Leaving Sam behind was like cutting his heart from his chest. He'd sworn long ago, no matter what options he had in front of him he'd never do anything like that again. _

~Now~

May 2010

DEANS EYES WIDENED at the memory. In the years since Sam had left for college and returned home he'd never been able to just let Sam go—not even the night Sam died in his arms. Not then, not ever.

Not until that day in Stull Cemetery.

And _that_ had been a mistake.

Resting his head against the door frame of the garage Dean stared at the black metal of the only remaining family he had left. It was a dismal representation of a family—but the Impala had been home for longer than he'd ever actually had a home. He and Sam had grown up, grown apart, and found their way back together in this car. This car knew everything about Dean… hell it knew more about Sam than most of Sam's so called friends had.

Dean's eyes slid shut he took a long drink from the glass bottle in his hand and wished again that maybe this drink would finally be enough to do the trick. Maybe this drink would help him forget. It digs at him though because he knows things like that just don't naturally happen—and forgetting is something Winchesters seem to have a problem with in the first place.

A few minutes pass by and Dean starts moving toward the car, his heart beat ringing in his ears. Opening the trunk Dean finds himself taking stock of the contents, sorting through the items he deems necessary to save his brother. Even through slightly skewed vision Dean knew everything he needed was there—exactly as he'd left it the night he'd arrived at Lisa's nearly a year ago. Throwing in a few new items he stopped short as he caught sight of Sam beside him.

_A fourteen year old version of was Sam standing there next to him—already eye to eye with his older brother. Sam was leaning on the rear quarter panel of the Impala, a wide smile lighting up his entire face. It was a smile Dean had always found annoyingly endearing, especially on days like this one. Sam was looking like he was on top of the world—and maybe he was for all Dean knew. _

_ It was a rare day that Dean ever disagreed with his father—especially to find himself agreeing with the logic of his younger brother, but that's exactly what he'd done earlier in the day. With John Winchester breathing down his neck, Dean had backed the play of his brother and directly disobeyed their father. Something he had prayed he wouldn't pay for later on._

_"You know what's great about having an older brother?" Sam asked taking a drink from his bottle of root beer. _

_Dean shrugged as he shuffled through the contents of the trunk, "What geek-boy?"_

_"Sometimes having you around is just like having a personal superhero." Sam sighed stepping away from the car, "I mean it, thanks for having my back today Dean."_

The moment had been fleeting in measurement of time, but it was powerful enough to be forever etched in Dean's memory. As simple as it had been—for a moment Dean had felt just like a superhero—someone his brother was proud to call his own.

Slamming the trunk shut he sighed. Some superhero he had turned out to be, Dean thought bitterly, leaving his little brother locked in a cage in hell for a year—_yeah; he was a great older brother._

Maybe he hadn't been the best brother the past few years, but he wasn't about to let his kid brother down anymore than he already had. If Sam needed a superhero to save him now, Dean was willing to take the job.


	2. Chapter 2

**CASS**

~Now~

May 2010

CASS HADN'T EXPECTED IT didn't see it coming, but the day that Sam Winchester made the decision to walk away from his brother and return to his version of a normal life had been powerful to say the least. From all outward appearances Sam seemed to be functioning at a normal level, maybe even excelling. But at night when Castiel would sit in on Sam's dreams he'd see something completely different. What lurked beyond the conscious mind was a mass of fear and confusion so thick that sometimes Cass wasn't sure Sam was ever going to find his way home.

**SAM**

~Now~

May 2010

NINE MONTHS AGO he'd woken up topside in Stull Cemetery, three weeks to the day after jumping into the pit he came out a bony battered heap; physically and emotionally at his breaking point. He was alone, with the exception of a singular raven that had flown overhead, calling out to him as he ambled down the dirt road just outside the gates. For hours he'd sat in the sunlight, afraid to move, unsure of where to go. It wasn't until the sun had begun its decent into the night sky that he'd managed to put himself together enough to leave the cemetery grounds—and even then, he didn't know where he was going.

For three or four days Sam shacked up in a rundown motel in Kansas City. Spent every waking moment trying to regain what he'd lost—find himself again, to figure out his next step. Every instinct told him to find his brother—_to fix what had been broken_. Every rationale thought exclaimed the opposite- told him to leave well enough alone. Dean finally had his own family, he was out of hunting, and he'd make it on his own. Sam would be a hypocrite after all if he didn't at least try to do the same.

After a week of solid phone calls and calling in huge personal favors from former professors Sam found himself back at Stanford. He enrolled in 15 credits for the summer term, enough to finish his undergraduate degree—and found himself enrolling in Law School at Indiana University for the Fall Term. The idea to move to Indiana had been simple; move on with his life—but do so at a distance in which he could occasionally check in on Dean. He had to admit that the odds of Dean finding him were substantially higher this way, but in truth there was a piece of him that hoped for that every day.

Now hunched over a table, stacked a foot high with textbooks, Sam rested his head on his hand and jotted down a series of notes covering Constitutional Law and Advanced Persuasive Writing and Oral Advocacy. The words on the page were starting to jumble, skitter across the page back and forth; he'd been at this for the past three hours. He was two days from finishing year one of Law school. And these two days would be an eternity if he couldn't get his head on straight enough to finish the work.

Leaning back in his chair Sam scanned the pile of papers he'd filled with writing and sighed. It had been years since he'd thrown himself into school like he was now. Years had passed since he'd first convinced himself school was the best option. Now years later he was trying to convince himself of these same things, but now just like then he couldn't help but feel like it was all a mistake.

~Then~

August 2003, Stanford

_SAM SAT WITH HIS HEAD BOWED, staring at his cell phone, and wished he knew what the hell he was supposed to do. It had been two years give or take a day or two since he'd stormed out of the hotel, away from his father, out of his old life. Bouts of what he equated to home sickness were far fewer now— but the occasional reminder of family was still overpowering at times. Leaning back into the soft comfort of the couch, Sam's thumb caressed the hard plastic that remained silent and he wished he could make it ring._

_There had been numerous nights in those early months that he had woken up in a cold sweat, expecting it to ring, wishing it would so that he would know they were alright. He'd missed one call from Dean earlier in the month, but no voice mail had been recorded and he'd been too damn stubborn to call back. Still, he took it as a sign that his brother was doing fine—or at least well enough to call. Scrolling through the names in his contacts folder Sam stopped, stared hard at Dean's name and tossed the phone onto the seat beside him._

_"You alright Sam?"_

_Sam turned slowly. He knew perfectly well that he wasn't, "I'm fine." He said as casually as he could. _

_"You wanna talk?"_

_Sam sighed and closed his eyes. How could he convey to someone who didn't really know him—_the real him_- how much he missed his family? As far as everyone was concerned at school, his family had dropped him like a bad habit and he'd returned the favor. He'd successfully made them out to be the bad guys, disowning him for wanting to follow his dreams. But there was only so much lying a person could do and even with all this time and space between them he still hadn't gotten a firm grip on forgetting where he'd come from and why they'd been so mad. How could he explain that he worried about his father and brother everyday—that he was worried because, well their job was to hunt monsters? How could he explain just how badly he needed to know that they were alright when he'd convinced everyone that he'd stopped caring long ago? _

_"Sometimes, I just wonder what I'm doing here." He said simply._

_Jessica's eyebrows rose as she picked up the phone. "What does that mean?" She asked taking the seat next to him._

_"I don't know. Sometimes I think I should go back."_

~Now~

May 2010

AGAIN TONIGHT SAM STARED ACROSS THE TABLE AT HIS CELL PHONE, seven years later and he still didn't know what he should do. It had been Jess that had steadied him, convinced him to stay at Stanford all those years ago, insisting that Sam follow his dreams and his family would come back around. This time he had no one in his corner.

Sam closed his eyes and rested his head on top of his folded arms, the light above the kitchen table was bright, almost blinding for his weary eyes. God, he was tired. He was tired and alone and if he really dug deep he had to admit he was long past lost and on the verge of completely loosing himself. Sam inhaled sharply and sighed, "Why'd you let me walk away Cass?" As his mind ran backward he swallowed hard and remembered the cool breeze that cut through the air the that night, the night he'd turned away from Dean for what he assumed would be for good. Exhaling he spoke again, "Sometimes I wish I could just go back."

~Then~

May 2009

_A STEADY YELLOW LIGHT ABOVE HIM CAST OUT SHADOWS ON THE SILENT STREET, bouncing, dancing eerily around him. Turning his attention back to the house across the street Sam swallowed hard as he watched Dean set down at Lisa's dinner table. He looked tired, worn, much the same way as Sam felt. _

_"He's worried about you." It was a familiar voice. "You should let him know you're home."_

_Sam felt his shoulders drop as he watched a second shadow take form on street. He lifted his head turning it to the left; "He's fine Cass." Sam wasn't sure if he was saying the words to convince Castiel or to convince himself. _

_"No he's not." Cass shook his head, turned toward him his voice flat. "But you already know that. Sam you know I—"_

_Sam held up a hand cutting him off. "I know it'll be better if I stay away."_

_"Who are you kidding Sam? You know exactly what he's thinking, how he's feeling. You've been there before."_

_Sam grimaced. He knew exactly what Cass was getting at. The pain he'd felt when his brother had been ripped away from him—pulled into the inferno—it had nearly killed him. "What do I have to say to him Cass?" Sam shoved his hands into his pockets, "I mean I don't really," he kicked at a rock near his foot, "Have much to say to anyone right now."_

_"Sam…" _

_"I moved on when he left." Sam turned away. "He will too." At least Sam hoped he would. Next to him he heard Cass sigh._

_"So you're going to run away?" It was the same bluntness Sam had come to expect from Castiel._

_"I'm not running away." Sam said stiffly._

_Cass glanced to him then back to house across the street. "Then what would you call it?"_

_Sam's head dropped, his bluff had been called, for all intents and purposes what he was about to do was simply; _running away._ "Why did you bring me back, Cass?"_

_"Oh," Castiel paused, "I think you know why."_

_As the words sunk in Sam scrubbed a hand across his face, "I didn't really deserve it."_

_Cass shook his head, stepped directly in front of Sam, looked up into his eyes and smiled, "If anyone deserved it Sam Winchester—it was you." _

**CASS**

~Now~

May 2010

CASS CAN FEEL THE PAIN RADIATING from Sam Winchester as he sat in on yet another dream, _a memory this time_. It hurts him to watch the walls crumbling around these boys, but he can't be the one to stop them from destroying themselves, they have to learn to stop doing it every time they turn around. No matter what had started the twisted web that had become their lives, the past year had been nothing short of a disaster on levels neither Dean nor Sam could quite seem to comprehend, to be honest it was something Cass struggled to understand on a daily basis as well.

Cass exhaled, someday they would catch on; at least that was his hope, reasonable or not it would be necessary if the Winchesters had hope to find any peace in their lives. Especially considering the boys weren't his charges anymore. He no longer had the authority to heal and protect them from every problem that came around. Nor did he believe it to be in their best interest any longer, the more he had stepped in to heal and wash away the wounds the more license it seemed to give them to take risks that were unnecessary at best.

**DEAN**

AS DEAN DROVE ALONG HIGHWAY 17 just outside of town he felt a sense of calmness come over him. The cool wind, blowing through the driver's side window, blew across his face, invigorated him, he felt alive. He hadn't felt like this months, let alone years. It was a relief to have a purpose, a sense of direction again. He'd known from the beginning that leaving Lisa and Ben behind was his only real option; he knew he couldn't go on living a lie knowing where Sam was, knowing what Sam was going through.

Up ahead Dean looked to the tight corner that wrapped around HWY 17 and Jonesboro Ave. He'd driven this road hundreds of times in the past few months working on the construction crew. It struck him as odd that for someone who spent most of his life living in a car, there were few roads he could honestly say he'd almost memorized, but this was one of them. At the realization that he wouldn't be driving down this road again for months to come he felt free—his body relaxed, he was ready for the world again, he was going to get Sam back, he wasn't going to let him go as easily as he had.

As his mind wandered through scenes of his possible future he lost track of his presence. It was the bright lights of a fast approaching car that brought his thoughts back immediately to the world around him. With only a second to react he heard his scream echo throughout the sky and felt the impact of the car as it smashed into the Impala like a ton of bricks. In the instant his car went airborne he could the force of energy throw his body forward, and in slow motion he was vaguely aware of the sound of glass smashing, and metal bending as he felt the impact of the ground, gasping for air, everything went silent and then black.

**CASS**

IT WAS HOURS INTO SAM'S NIGHTMARE RIDDLED SLEEP that Cass felt the pull of a charge in danger, a warning system of sorts exclaiming the need for his sudden undivided attention. Flickering out of Sam's unconscious mind Cass allowed himself to be pulled through time and space, landing in the middle of what he could've only described as chaos. The high pitched squealing and scraping sounds of metal being cut echoed around him, reminded him of the sound of nails on a chalkboard. As awful as the noise had been it was nearly drown out by the sound of a chopper landing nearby. Intermittent sounds of fireman and other emergency personnel shouted out orders that staccato through the sounds of the night air.

As he stood there, he took in the entire scene, and there he finally spotted it, exactly what he had predicted he would find before him. Invisible to rescue crews around him, Castiel watched in silence as the medical personnel pulled a young man from the wreckage of a black '67 Chevy Impala.

AS HE OFTEN HAD IN THE PAST Castiel stood guard, this time at the entrance of trauma bay one, watching and listening to the scene unfolding before him. As much as he wanted to jump in and save the man before him, he knew this time had to be different. In order for the Winchesters to figure out and fix their lives, they had to experience the entirety of physical and emotional pain, no matter how bad it hurt.

As the E.M.T.s pulled the gurney through the double doors Cass listened to the information presented by the lead technician as if it had been rehearsed on the ride over, "Dean Winchester, 31 year old male, MVA, hit head on, rollover accident, no seatbelt, ejected from the front window. Lost consciousness at the scene, he's been in and out en route; we've got diminished breath sounds on the right, 150/98…"

Castiel shivered, took in a deep breath, closed his eyes and reminded himself why he doing this in the first place.

It was the sound of Dean's painfully elicited cries permeating through the trauma bay that snapped Cass back to the present seconds later. "Someone tell me we've got a chest and C-spine ready to go," a woman's voice called out into the room as Dean was lifted and slid on to a new gurney, "Let's get normal saline please. Start a central line. Get a CBC, chem panel, platelets, type and screen…"

"I know you're hurtin' right now Dean," An younger man, an intern more than likely, was directly above Dean's face, looking down at him, as he moved a stethoscope around on Dean's chest, "We're going to take care of you okay?"

Carefully, as if he were afraid of being detected, Cass approached the side of the gurney and drew in a deep breath taking stock of the injuries covering the man before him. He didn't need x-rays, vials of blood, or other diagnostic tests to tell him what was wrong; instinctively he just knew. There were the broken ribs, a collapsed lung, and a massive hematoma in his abdomen stemming from a ruptured spleen, _but that was just the beginning_. Castiel sighed, even though the internal structure of Dean's body was crumbling and warranted the most consideration, it was the dirt and blood covering Dean's face that captivated his attention. For as much time and effort as Dean had always put in to building up walls to protect himself, his eyes had always glinted with hints of truth, and tonight behind the masked tough guy facade, they were terrified.

A tall nurse to Cass' left was working feverishly to cut away at what remained of the jeans Dean had been wearing. Cass watched the nurse, whose name tag read Tom, as he pulled away the thick fabric and let out and audible gasp as he assessed the mangled tissue and protruding bone, and as if on autopilot asked, "Can you move your toes Dean?"

A flurry of voices picked up pace as Cass watched two physicians prepare to cut into Dean's skin with a sharp surgical blade. Castiel knew once he saw it what was coming next, and chest tubes, he understood were not a painless procedure. As the incision was made and the doctors began transecting tissue, Cass stole another glance at Dean's face and held his breath. Water was rolling from Dean's eyes even as they were slammed shut, his teeth were clinched, and he too was holding his breath… _trying not to scream_. Once the doctors began maneuvering the tube through the chest wall Dean finally gave in and let's out guttural cry that would have caused any one without medical training to shudder.

"What do we got today?" A new voice stepped in, followed by the familiar voice from the young intern across from Cass, "A God-damn mess." He answered.

Moving away from the gurney Castiel found in all honesty he couldn't argue with the blunt assessment the doctor had just offered. Stepping backward he fought the urge to jump in and rescue Dean as he and done many times before. This time with incredible reserve he held back, watching as the doctors and nurses worked for several minutes assessing injuries and calming a struggling patient. Closing his eyes Cass inhaled sharply_, they may never forgive him for deciding to go about fixing things in this way, but it was time to force Sam back to reality, make him realize all that he truly risked losing. _As for Dean, Cass took a final look over at the man lying on the stretcher; _it was time for Dean to learn to live for himself not just his younger brother. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Hope you all enjoy the update- please leave a review if you get a chance! Oh, and enjoy the summer!**

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**SAM**

"YOU NEED TO GO TO YOUR BROTHER SAM." Sam startled when he heard the voice, but recognized it immediately. Sitting straight up, awakened from his dream, Sam spun around in his chair. There just in front of him, Sam studied the stoic stance Castiel had taken on the far side of the kitchen. Pushing himself to his feet Sam swallowed hard, he knew instinctively that whatever the reason he was there, it wasn't good.

"Cass?" His voice was strained.

"Sam."

It had been a year since he'd last seen Castiel, a year, not just days or weeks…and yet a year was feeling all too soon, "You gotta give me more than that. What's going on?"

Cass looked at the white tile floor, seemed as if he needed to collect his thoughts, and then returned his gaze to Sam, "This is not a request Sam. His car is totaled, and in all honesty so is he."

Sam exhaled as his knees slackened, but somehow he managed to steady himself with a grip on the chair next to the kitchen table. "What does that mean, _exactly?_" Sam asked raising an eyebrow, "Are you taking care of him?"

Castiel sighed, nodded and made his way around the small island in the middle of Sam's kitchen. "It means he's in an emergency room fighting for his life," Sam watched his movements, slow, precise, "It also means I can't help him this time Sam, and it most likely means you don't understand why."

"No I don't understand. You are supposed to watch over him, take care of him for me. I trusted you."

"I can't stop everything that happens, nor do I have the ability to fix everything either." Cass stared at Sam daring him to challenge the conviction of his statement.

Sam furrowed his eyebrows, jaw clenched, eyes glaring screaming out a silent, _What the hell Cass_? But to his credit Sam remained silent.

"Seriously, what did you think was going to happen Sam?" Castiel's voice was low, sobering as he closed the distance between the two of them, "I told you to go to your brother that night. But what did you do?" He paused letting the question bounce around in Sam's head, "You ran away. You left." Cass sidestepped around Sam, moved swiftly towards the apartment door, "You know your brother; you know the way he thinks. Had you just gone to him you could have prevented this you know."

Sam felt his heart drop. Felt the air rush from his lungs, "You're blaming me?"

"No."

After a delayed silence, Sam closed his eyes, trying to mentally reach into the fog of the moment before asking the inevitable question, "Are you going to heal him?"

"No, Sam. I'm not."

Sam blinked, blindsided by the bluntness of Castiel's words, then shifted his weight and cleared his throat, "What do you mean, _no_?" How the hell was this happening?

"Sometimes in life you have to live with the hand you're dealt. _This_ is one of those times." Castiel spoke softly as he approached Sam his hand resting on Sam's shoulder. "You _need_ to go to your brother. _Now."_

IN THE MOMENT HE FELT HIS FEET BACK ON THE SOLID GROUND beneath him Sam looked up at the red lit sign above him and read one single word; 'Emergency'. He didn't know whether he hated Castiel for bringing him here the way he had, or if he was thankful for Cass's limited hesitation. Either way he didn't see that he had any other choice in the moment and steeled himself for what was about to happen as he walked through the sliding glass doors and straight to the reception desk.

"Excuse me," his voice came out shakier than he had been prepared for, worried, and apprehensive, "I'm looking for—uh—for my brother, Dean Winchester."

A small brunette woman looked up at him, clearing her throat as she smiled, "I'm sorry, who?"

"Dean Winchester," Sam repeated, "I was told he was in an accident earlier tonight." Nervously tapping his fingers on the countertop he watched her study a screen on her computer. For a brief moment he allowed his eyes to scan the men and women circulating around the lobby. A few were carrying balloons, words like 'Get Well' and 'It's a Boy' jump out at him. He wondered what kind of balloon would make this visit to his brothers room more welcome. Maybe, a 'Sorry I Haven't Called in A While', or a simple 'I'm a Jerk' would suffice.

"Sir," The woman stood up beside her chair, smoothing her hand over her impossibly white shirt, "He's in surgery now. I'll show you to the surgical waiting room."

THE COLD STERILE AIR of the fifth floor waiting room felt like acid to his lungs, choking him from the inside out. Holding him captive right where he sat, waiting…

Hoping…

…Thinking.

He'd been here before, or at least places just like this one… sitting in an unknown hospital, holding vigil while Dean fought for his life. The familiarity with the routine never made it easier to wait, especially now when Sam felt completely out of practice with it. In the past year Sam had worried about a lot of things, his classes, his grades, his own mental health…but never once had he worried about the safety of his brother. Dean was out of the game, safe and sound. It never crossed his mind that something as mundane and ordinary as a car wreck would force him back into this old role.

Exhaling sharply Sam's gaze finally came to rest on the clock hanging on the wall. One hour had passed since he'd been escorted to this room and instructed to sit down, wait and rest. He sighed, a deep aching sigh that filled the air around him with the grief he felt weighing down his every breath. _One hour and still not a word._ _Dean's chasing the dark— again, _Sam thought despairingly. _But it's going to be okay, _he quickly reassured himself,_ because Dean's always been good at that; chasing the dark. _Shifting uncomfortably he stared up at the white ceiling and let his thoughts drift backward, like a movie reel running in reverse, replaying a night much like this one in Memphis, Tennessee five years earlier.

He could still hear the shattering of glass, the bending of steel as the Impala wrapped around the front of the semi-truck. He remembered the impact of his head on the side window, the dizzying black that swirled around his head, and surprisingly when he awoke he remembered the sound of 'Life in the Fast Lane' blaring from the speakers. He remembered bits and pieces of voices surrounding him, remembered hearing his father, _"Help is coming Sam."_

Then there was the moment he recalled with the most clarity, the moment he saw Dean. The moment he saw the blood, saw the way Dean sagged lifeless in the seat. He could remember screaming, though he couldn't remember what was coming out of his mouth with any certainty. He couldn't remember the exact moment the ambulance arrived or the helicopter touched down, but he remembered the truck driver, a short, thin man, begging him for forgiveness as they carried him away. He remembered the fear he felt as he was transported to the hospital, the anxiety that washed over him while he waited for news on his father and brother.

He imagined a scene much the same this time, Dean's car—the only constant in Dean's life—mangled again. Dean being pulled from the wreckage; only this time he would have been alone. _Alone._ Sam shook his head, forcing himself to hold the tears back_. Dean had always been there for him. He however never seemed to be there for his brother—he had always been consumed by running away._

He glanced over at the clock, one hour and fifteen minutes…

Sam slumped further down into the corner chair tears breaking at the corner of his eyes; _it's time to stop chasing the dark Dean._

Alone with his thoughts Sam watched as a collection of nurses passed by dressed in simple black scrubs, in hushed tones the needs of some patient down the hall were being discussed at length. Then just behind them he saw a familiar face, the brunette from the reception desk was walking toward him, escorting more family members toward the small blue room he'd been occupying just outside of the surgical doors. Briefly he wondered what kind of circumstance had brought them to this little corner of hell, and then determined he doesn't much care—it's none of his damn business. Sam lets his head fall, grieving alone was bad enough, but sharing a room with others is worse—the uncomfortable silences, the building tension and apprehension, hospital waiting rooms were emotional pipe bombs at best.

With his head resting on his hands he listens to the sound of each new voice as they enter the room.

"Mom it's really cold in here." The voice belonged to a boy.

An exhausted voice replied back just above a whisper, "Just sit please." A gentle sigh is followed by the sound of crinkling plastic beneath the newcomers as they are seated, a sign they won't be leaving him any time soon. Slowly Sam raises his head, his eyes still trained on the floor beneath his feet, he's not ready to acknowledge them yet, not ready to make any connection.

There's sound from across the room comes from the boys throat, a cross between a sigh and a sob and Sam looks up to see the boy staring up at his mother, "Mom do you really think Dean's gonna be okay?"

Eyes wide, Sam stares straight ahead, feels the pit of his stomach drop as he studied the faces across from him. The boy was leaning into his mother now; her arm is draped protectively around his shoulders, brown hair thrown into a wild ponytail, brown eyes swollen and red. _Lisa. _

FOR A HUNDERED REASONS, though none of them he'd admit were truthfully good, Sam remained silent across the waiting room from Lisa Braden and her son Ben. Unable to gather the courage he needed to speak to them, he sat instead and listened to bits and pieces of conversation that gave him a glimpse into the world his brother has been occupying for nearly a year. It hurt to know that for the entire year that he'd been absent, he'd also been more or less replaced, but the worst part Sam reminded himself was that he is the one that made that choice for Dean.

"Dean Winchester's family?"

It was a strong deep voice that pulled Sam back into reality and had Lisa suddenly on her feet, "Yes."

The man in the white overcoat nodded curtly, then turned his attention to Sam, "Lisa and Sam correct?"

Lisa steals a quick look at her son and stares at the doctor as if he is crazy, "No," she says shaking her head toward Ben, "Lisa and Ben."

Sam runs a hand through his hair and rubs his palm over his unshaven jaw, pushing himself to his feet, clearing his throat he nodded to the doctor, "Yes sir," He swallowed hard as he looked down at a bewildered Lisa, "I'm Sam Winchester ."

Lisa watched him as he stood before her, her eyes widening, "_Oh my God…"_

NOTHING COULD HAVE PREPARED SAM FOR THIS. Perhaps, he realized that Castiel's intentions were exactly that when he'd virtually thrown Sam to the wolves earlier that night. Sam's had his fair share of practice when it comes to surviving the ICU, yet it still feels like a shock to his system. Sam can feel the tightening in his chest as he takes stock of Dean's extensive list of injuries. Dean is lying perfectly still, a white collar anchoring his head in place as a ventilator managed his airway, clicking and hissing as his chest rose and fell methodically. A central line had been placed on the left side of his chest; two more IV needles were stuck in his arms, pumping in medications for any number of reasons. The swollen ripped flesh on his right leg stuck out from under the cotton blanket; there were chest tubes, catheters, chunks of dirt and blood that still clung to Dean's hair. _Fuck—This shit never got easier._

Sam exhaled sharply and leaned into the cool wall behind him as much to dull the throbbing in his head as to keep his balance while he watched in silence as a frightened Lisa Braden stood absolutely rigid at Dean's side. As he watched Sam was again struck by a feeling of resentment as a woman he barely knew resumed his long held place at Dean's side.

"Sam?" At the sound of his name, Sam straightened up a little, "He's been through things like this before, right?" She asked quietly.

Sam nodded, shuffled his feet, "Yes." His voice was soft, low, "Yes."

Lisa inhaled, closing her hand around Deans, "How about this time? Will he make it again?" Lisa's questions were so wistful as they rolled off her lips that it made the breath catch in Sam chest. "Lisa," Sam hesitated as he closed his eyes, without any help from Castiel there was no guarantee, "I don't know."

**DEAN**

AFTER FOUR DAYS OF FIGHTING THROUGH A HAZY FOG, it was the sensation of being held under water, and waiting until the last second to surface for air that Dean awakens to. He tried to open his eyes, gauge his surroundings, but found it nearly impossible. His eyes were so dry that he felt as if he'd stood out in a sandstorm without blinking for hours. He had one hell of a headache too, a fucking blinding pain that seemed to spread the length of his body, keeping his arms and legs uncooperative and weighted down. As he struggled to take in a deep breath, he was immediately met with an equally intense feeling that he was being choked, completely prevented from breathing on his own.

"Don't fight it." A man said, "Dean? Dean? Can you hear me son?" When he didn't respond to the voice, Dean felt a set of knuckles press down and rub hard into his sternum. He jerked; trying to get away from the painful touch, a silent whimper fell off his lips as his eyes flew open. A blurry image of a middle aged man wearing a red tie and a white lab coat appeared in his field of vision just above him, "You're on a ventilator Dean, it's breathing for you, don't fight it."

Dean closed his eyes, _what the hell was happening? _ Fuzzy images flashed through his mind of this same face—wearing different ties standing above him_._ A series of other faces crossed his mind; Lisa and Ben intermingled with faces he didn't know, had never seen, all twisted up into a mess of garbled features and sounds around him. Phrases like "You're okay." and "We're here." repeated over and over. Then he remembered one voice in particular, over and over, "I'm sorry."

_Sam. _

_Christ_, he had to have been hallucinating.

_That or he was back in Hell. _

"Dean relax." A hand wrapped around his arm, snapping him from his thoughts, and pushing his arm back down to his side. Momentarily he struggled against the force of it, tried to raise his arm again, but the feeling of pressure expanding his chest stopped him cold. The shock of being forced to adhere to a timed breathing mechanism, made him spasm, sent a shockwave of excruciating pain through his body. _Please God, somebody help me…_

"We're taking care of you Dean. You're in the ICU at the Saint Joseph's Hospital, my name is Dr. Kershaw," This time the hand wrapped around his, gripping it tight before it loosened, "Squeeze my hand if you understand me."

Peering underneath heavy eyelids Dean studied the man above him. More out of a need for contact, then doing what he was told, Dean finally acquiesced to the request, his grip tightening around Kershaw's hand as he waited for air to expand his lungs and stop the panic that spread through his body each time he felt deprived of oxygen.

"Good." Dr. Kershaw smiled briefly, squeezed Dean's hand again, and cleared his throat. "We're gonna get you some good stuff here in a in a little while, it'll help you relax—take away the edginess." Dean nodded what little he could, sank back into the hospital bed, and closed his eyes. _He might not be in Hell, but it was close enough._

**SAM**

FOR SAM THOSE FOUR DAYS of watching his brother jump in between the conscious world and the heavily sedated one he occupied most of the time was a complete blur. When he wasn't sitting at Dean's side, Sam found himself caught in between two worlds himself. The first forced him to reorganize and focus, re-align the life he'd been living with the one he was going to living for quite some time. Arraignments were made almost immediately with his college professors to take an incomplete in his course work, leaving him with the ability to focus solely on his brother's needs. This offered him the opportunity to talk with and ask questions of the doctors, surgeons, and nursing staff—as the task of managing the surgical dates, procedures and whatever else needed to be done fell primarily on his shoulders as the official next of kin listed on record.

Lisa had been dead set against his role as primary contact that first day; her trust in Sam was unquestionably non-existent. Sam understood. It would have been impossible to deny that he had had no part in creating this mess. Instead he sat with her in the waiting room on that second day and did his best to explain the past year to her. In the end Lisa looked up at him nodding as she wiped a tear from her face, "Sam, I don't agree with the choices you've made," her voice was soft, "Too be honest, I probably never will, but I understand your intent was always good, and I know Dean needs you. Just swear to me you'll do what's best for _Dean, no one else."_

Sam had no intention of breaking the promise he'd made to her, it was after all more of a promise to _Dean_.

FRESHLY SHOWERED AND SHAVEN, Sam had returned to the hospital the evening of the fourth day greeted with news he both celebrated and feared. Dean had, as the charge nurse had excitedly told him, been lucid for most of the past hour, responding to medical staff, and following directions. He'd been in a lot of pain, she'd continued, and they'd given Dean more fentanyl, _'So you shouldn't expect him to be clear minded when you get down there'._

Sam thanked her for the update, hiding the fact that he wasn't at all prepared for consequences he was about to face, and ducked down the hall toward Dean's room. Just outside of the room, Sam stopped short and sagged into the wall of the hallway, his body aching with tension and nervousness. He was not ready to face the music just yet, but the time was coming... With closed eyes, Sam lifted his head upward inhaling slowly, then because he didn't know what else to do he prayed.

Dean was on the verge of sleep when Sam entered through the door, his glossy eyes squinting at Sam's figure seemingly unable to place him at first. Sam waited, his feet firmly planted in place as he stared back down, studying Dean's torn features. He knows somewhere in there, beyond the drug induced pseudo world Dean is living in, his brother _knows_ he's there. Sam just doesn't know how he's going to react.

** DEAN**

FOR A YEAR NOW Sam had been dead and gone. He'd seen Sam jump into the pit, felt his own body collapse to the ground, it wasn't a memory he'd made up_, of that Dean was sure_. The very fact that it had happened at all, had eaten away at his core, brought him to his knees on several occasions and preyed on him in his nightmares; _of this Dean was absolutely positive._ But right now, as he looked up at the dark brown hair, and into the dark brown eyes above him, he's not certain of much.


	4. Chapter 4

****Well this update took a while longer than I had planned- trying to re-write this chapter took way too long and caused too many head aches, so I decided to go with what I had. Hopefully you all enjoy it- more to come later. And as always- leave a comment if you can. Thanks.

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**DEAN**

DR. KERSHAW WAS STANDING ABOVE HIM AGAIN, this time he's standing with his arms over his chest, speaking to a nurse with an intensity that Dean couldn't quite follow. He was vaguely aware that they planned to remove the ventilator tube, but he hurt so damn much it was too hard to concentrate, let alone just lie there. At some point the nurse started messing with the straps holding the tube in place— pulling the tape away from his face. He turned his head away, closing his eyes, grimacing at the additional pain it seemed to cause.

Kershaw had a hold of his hand now, his other hand aligning and keeping Dean's head in place. The word 'suctioning' was spoken and instantly Dean felt his body tense, worse than feeling like you were drowning, suctioning out the vent tube felt damn near like someone was choking you from the inside out—and the sound was awful—just like vacuuming out your lungs— _fucking awesome_. As the process started he felt himself lurch forward, felt Kershaw push him back, it seemed to last for an hour—_the feeling of suffocating, the sound of fluid being pulled from his throat_— but probably lasted only ten or twenty seconds from beginning to end. _He hated this._

"Just one more time." He'd heard Dr. Kershaw say it, but it still caught him off guard. If he could he would rip the damned thing out of his throat himself. "You need to cough Dean. _Cough_." _Shit. _ He was trying to cough, but gagging was probably a more accurate description, as they pulled the tube out—gaging, panicking, shaking uncontrollably—any of those seemed to be a more accurate than coughing. "You're okay kid." Dr. Kershaw squeezed his hand, smiled. Jesus, he was sick of hearing those words, _did anyone seriously think he believed them?_ He undoubtedly looked, and most definitely felt like hell—_he was not okay_.

The nurse was sticking another suctioning tube in his mouth now, telling him to cough up the junk in his throat, _God he was tired._ A thick plastic mask was slid over his face, straps adjusted, and Dean closed his eyes, sucking in the deepest breath he could muster. Despite the fact that his throat was raw it seemed pretty minor now that he was able to willfully control his own breathing. _If he ever got tubed again it would be too soon. _

For a few minutes he was asked a series of questions, some of them several times; he remembered mumbling on about how bad his leg hurt, but even to his own ears what he was saying didn't make much sense.

He wasn't sure how long he laid there with his eyes closed after Kershaw and the nurse left the room but he was blissfully aware that at some point they must have understood his ramblings and given him more pain medication, because a warm feeling seemed to wash over his body—temporarily dulling the pain he couldn't entirely escape.

As he lay there, his eyes opened staring up at the ceiling, he caught something out of place in his field of vision. Then just as suddenly as the feeling of calmness had settled in over him it was ripped away again.

It was a familiar figure, one he still wasn't sure if he were hallucinating or actually seeing. Either way it was really starting to screw with his head—_seriously_. Sam—_at least he was pretty damn sure it was Sam_— was casually leaning against a small space in the wall across from Dean's bed, arms crossed, head hung, eyes closed. Stoic. Relaxed. It was unnerving as hell to see. For the past two days Sam had come and gone, watchful, silent, collected. Dean swallowed, choking a little on the gunk left in his throat, felt his chest tighten. He watched as Sam straightened up and opened his eyes—intense, calculating, _concerned._ Dean shook his head, closed his eyes again, whoever, _whatever_ was that was in front of him…he wished they'd go away.

_God, he was so tired. _

**SAM**

"AREN'T YOU SUPPOS'D TO BE DEAD?" Dean's voice was rough, it sounded like gravel scraping across cement, to Sam's ears.

Sam frowned leaning forward in his chair next to Dean's bed, "I suppose I am." It was the first semi-coherent thing Dean had said since the ventilator had been removed earlier in the day, and it sure as hell wasn't what Sam had been expecting, _wanting. _ Truth be told Sam's not entirely sure what he expected to happen if or when he and Dean ever had the chance to meet up again; a hello, a fucking hug, maybe Dean flying at him with a knife in his hand, but whatever it was— it wasn't this. Because this—the car accident, the week long stint they've already done in the ICU... Sam never would've wanted _this._ Ever.

Dean blinked at Sam under heavy eyelids, "If you're gonna kill me, jus' get it over with." Dean's slurred words were muddled together, "I'm already hurtin' man—I won't fight you."

Holy shit. "No—Dean." Oh my God. "No." _So much for coherent. _"Not an angel, not a demon, it's just me—just Sam."

"My brother is dead."

The statement was so matter of fact Sam felt completely dumbstruck as he sat there. _How the hell was he supposed to respond to that? _Sam inhaled with a deliberate pause, trying to think of an explanation Dean might be able to grasp, finally settling with something equally blunt and truthful, "Mine was too."

Dean stared over at him his eyes focused in, _intense_. Somewhere in there, something had to be registering. Dean couldn't argue the fact that he too had reappeared, crawled out of hell himself, just a few years earlier. "How'd you?" he shook his head and exhaled in frustration, "When did you?" The look on his face suggested to Sam that the words were twisting up— tying knots inside Dean's head.

Sam closed his eyes, rubbed at his temples, "Cass brought me here." He just had to keep the answers simple, no room for Dean to make assumptions, no need to make things any worse than they already were.

Dean nodded, not looking at Sam.

It was hard to tell what Dean was thinking. Hard to tell if Dean even believed him. "Dean, I…" He what? He should probably just shut up—_don't make anything worse_. Sam cleared his throat, "You alright?"

Dean made a noise that sounded like a low laugh, then groaned, "I hurt Sam…" Dean closed his eyes, grimacing in pain. "My leg it_ really _hurts." Sam scanned the grotesque torn and bruised flesh of his brother's right leg. An external fixator encased his leg now, in a surgery that had been done two days prior, pins and bolts sticking out of bone. It looked like something he'd seen in hell—a torture device of sorts. Sam felt his stomach flip. _Don't think about this._ Truthfully it was hard to think about hell when he spent most of his days in a 10 by 10 room listening to sounds Dean was making, looking at the injuries that covered his body—it was too fucking awful not to have flashbacks.

Sam shook his head, found himself still staring at the fixator, _it would be nice when they could actually put a cast on Dean's leg. _But for now a cast had been out of the question; with the dirt and glass that had been packed into the wounds from the car wreck, infection had become a pretty valid concern. At least one more surgery was already on the docket to clean out the wounds on his leg as well as his right arm. Just one of the many surgeries that were to come.

_"Sam?"_ Dean's voice was strained, broke Sam free of his thoughts.

Sam shivered as he heard another sound escape Dean's throat, one that was unmistakably a sob, "Okay, okay—I gotcha." Sam licked at his lips as he worked to unwrap the small cord he'd tied around the bedside railing. It was a small cord with a tan button on top—a very unimportant looking piece of equipment, Sam had noted, in a room filled with terrifyingly important tools—but it delivered the pain medication that Dean very clearly needed. Depressing the button Sam sighed,"Just breathe man, you'll be _okay_, it'll be _alright_." But even he had to admit, being 'okay' and 'alright' was about the furthest thing from the truth.

**CASS**

CASTIEL DREW IN A DEEP BREATH AND BIT AT HIS BOTTOM LIP, it was time to go to the Winchesters. Sam had been calling to him, screaming at him like a lunatic, for about five solid minutes by now. It wasn't an audible scream, but Cass could hear it none the less—knew it was desperate and warranted attention as soon as he heard it. Now as he looked down on Sam, he wondered how such a tall, solid man could shrink himself down into virtually nothing as Sam had managed to do. With his arms wrapped tightly around himself, Sam was holding himself as steady as he could against the hard wall just outside Dean's door. His eyes were bloodshot, tear filled, and frightened.

Cass felt like he was landing in the middle of a goddamn war zone as his feet hit the tile floor covering the ICUs hallway. Just steps from him a massive flurry of individuals were in and out of Dean's room, each looking more alarmed and panicked than the last. Within the confines of the ICU there was shouting from several doctors and nurses, orders that were being given and followed with little question or hesitation, but underneath it all was the intensity of Dean's screams beyond the door.

At one point the sound of Dean screaming for help was so distressing Cass watched Sam who had been struggling to get to his feet, falter and instead begin retching where he knelt in the hallway. It was absolute chaos—and Castiel again considered the weight of his actions and the moments that would follow against the overwhelming desire he had to instantly fix all that had been broken. As he knelt down, he could hear a falter in Sam's breathing, and rested a reassuring hand carefully on Sam's shoulder. Sam shuddered under the light touch, grabbed at his stomach and again staggered forward choking up another mouthful of bile.

"Sam…"

A set of feet belonging to a doctor in a long over coat, sidestepped the two of them, oblivious to the carnage in the hallway. Cass exhaled took a seat on the floor, leaned back into the cool tile; there was so much anxiety in the air it felt suffocating. And if he could feel it, it had to be ripping Sam apart. _Sam._ Reaching over Cass gripped Sam's shoulder once again, pulled him hard back into a sitting position. The sound of Dean screaming in the background loomed over the two of them, made Sam cringe next to him, and Cass lowered his head.

"Please stop this Cass." Sam was breathless as he leaned back into the wall, his eyes pleading, "_Please._"

**SAM**

HE'D ONLY BEEN GONE FOR ABOUT THREE HOURS. Three hours to clean up, catch up on some much needed sleep and find a bit of food that didn't come from the hospital cafeteria and take care of a few issues at school. Dean had been asleep, out cold, for the first time in days. It shouldn't have been anything more than a quick trip, nothing big. Except when he got back to the fourth floor ICU that wasn't how it had played out. As soon as he got off the elevator he heard it—it was a sound etched in his mind, Dean screaming for help, screaming to stop the pain.

Sam had managed to get into Dean's room within seconds, surrounded by doctors and nurses who were working furiously to calm his older brother. "What is going on?" Sam demanded, "Somebody tell me what's going on!"

It wasn't much more than a minute later a woman in a lab coat swiftly grabbed his arm and pushed him out into the hall. Feeling dizzy and overwhelmed and physically ill Sam braced himself against the wall as she stared at him, "Why isn't anyone doing anything? Helping?"

"We are honey," the woman stared up at him, furious, "but you yelling sure ain't doing the trick." She pointed at the ground in front of him, "You stay right there until we have things squared away."

Sam stared at her. Nodded_, barely._

When the sound of Dean's agonized cries filled the hallway, he slid down the wall, tears running down his face, trying hard not to start screaming himself.

~Then~

May 2009

IT WAS THE CLEAREST OF THE MEMORIES HE COULD RECALL from the three weeks he spent in the cage; being forced to relive Dean's time in hell. Truth be told it was one hell of a twisted way to fuck with someone's head—allowing them to live out such excruciating memories without the ability to change or stop any of the events as they occurred.

_SAM HAD BEEN FORCED TO WITNESS IT NO LESS THAN A HUNDRED T_IMES _in those three weeks. Dean was suspended in midair over the heat of open flame, blood seeping out from beneath metal hooks holding him firmly in place. Above him Sam could see the flickers of flame casting shadows across Deans face. _

_Sam could feel his heart pounding as he stood there watching. As much as he wanted to turn away, he was forced to see— forced to participate never being given the option of missing a second. The fire around them was dancing, casting oddly shaped shadows against the walls, the ceiling, and the floor. Moving up and down, side to side, laughing at both their misfortune. _

_Alistair was taking his time, taunting Dean, daring him to move on the rack, it was so sadistic that it made Sam sick to watch. He looked around, to both his sides, but didn't see an escape, couldn't find a way out no matter how hard he looked, no matter how many times he'd looked. Dean's voice cracked above him, begging, "Please don't— not this, please…" His face was twisted in agony, and as hard as he had tried, his body would jerk and spasm causing Dean to cry out in pain._

_There was laughter, an acidic black sound that permeated the room. Alistair's laughter. _

_Sam's face snapped toward Alistair immediately aware of what Dean had been protesting and felt the pit of his stomach drop to his feet. He stared at Alistair who had cloaked himself in a perfect recreation of Sam. _

_"Do you know how fucking glad I am that you're here and not me?" The voice was his, but it wasn't _him_. _God, _Dean had to know the difference,_ didn't he? _ "Look at how pathetic you are." The way Alistair laughed mimicked Sam to perfection, "Do you know you're fucking crying? It's pathetic Dean. Pathetic." Alistair was moving around Dean now, a small utility knife cradled in his hand. He was making slow, shallow and deliberate cuts along Dean's body, enough to draw blood, and cause Dean to flinch and cry out in even more pain. _

_Sam watched as Alistair worked to pull apart Dean's memories; digging around in Dean's head looking for the keys to his worst fears and pulling them out one by one. Each new revelation earning Dean a new wound, deeper than the previous one, all delivered by a demon dressed as his younger brother. _

_The torture would go on for near an hour before Alistair would deliver the final blow. Dean who would be completely defeated and begging for forgiveness wouldn't ever see it coming… It was a ten inch carving knife that landed the final blow, ripping Dean apart from head to toe as the mock-Sam professed his hatred for his older brother. Dean would beg for it to stop and scream with such veracity that Sam never once made it through the entire memory without getting physically sick. _

~Now~

May 2010

THAT MEMORY WAS ALL TOO REAL as Sam leaned up against the tile wall. Listened to the way Dean was screaming for help, _pleading_. Sam's stomach rolled, his hands were shaking. Jesus Christ. Dean was scared. _He was scared_. It was hard to breathe. Wiping his mouth on his shirt sleeve he looked over at Castiel, _"Please stop this Cass."_ His voice was shaking nearly as bad as his hands, _"Please?"_

Cass took in a deep breath, looked from the doctors in the doorway back to Sam and cleared his throat, "You should get cleaned up now Sam, Dean is going to need you soon."

_"You're going to help?"_ Sam's voice cracked. He wasn't sure if he could sound any more desperate if he tried.

Cass nodded warily and pushed himself to his feet. "No Sam," he said holding a hand out, offering it to Sam. Sam ignored the gesture feeling his chest tightening as Castiel spoke. "The doctors know what they are doing. It's best I don't interfere."

Sure. Fine. Whatever. Fuck it. His frustration and pain pouring out as anger as he pulled himself to his feet, "You interfere in everything all the time Cass!—_why not now_?"

"You do understand that without my interference both you and Dean would have been dead several times over by now. Please tell me what good has that ever done the two of you Sam, honestly?" The question was thought provoking and Castiel let Sam ponder it for a moment before shaking his head. As he stood there Cass' face softened, and he sighed, "Forgetting about the mistakes you've made and the wounds you've suffered isn't enough to make them disappear, Sam. So you understand that if I step in and fix this you've learned nothing—_you've fixed nothing_." Sam had to admit, though he didn't like it, that Castiel was right. "Your relationship with Dean isn't a hangnail Sam—you can't clip it and make the pain go away."


	5. Chapter 5

**DEAN**

Dean had been jolted awake by a pain-filled scream echoing around his room. At first he didn't register it was his own screams that had pulled him from his sleep—at least not until another involuntarily scream poured off of his lips, and he nearly choked on the pain shooting through his body. Frantically he had started pressing the button that was set to administer fentanyl into his system cursing it loudly and calling out for help as the pain had engulfed the entire length of his body.

The pain was bone deep, white hot, and Dean clenched his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut tight, trying to the best of his ability to mentally prepare himself for waves of pain that rolled over him, one starting before another had ended. He hurt so god damn bad he couldn't seem to control anything his body was doing, anything he was saying.

It was…_ fucking pathetic._

Doctors and nurses were filing into his room, a rush of concern followed by a flurry of diagnostic tests. A pain-filled cry involuntarily ripped from his lips as one of the doctors touched—_felt like the doctor ripped apart_— his leg. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes as he arched his back to the side, _blinding pain at every corner._

As he fought to shift his leg away from the doctor, Dean felt another pair of hands pressing into him, pinning him down in place. Struggling for air, he covered his eyes with his forearm trying to hide the fact he was on the verge of crying. "Breathe in," The doctor admonished, "keep breathing." It was a hell of a lot easier said than done.

_Oh God, please make it stop, please._ Thrusting his head backward into the bed, he choked, gasped, and felt his body begin to shake violently, "Sammy? Sam? Jesus..." _Son of a bitch it was hard to breath._ "It…I fucking hurt—help me—it hurts," _He choked trying to force air into his lungs_, "—make it stop—_STOPPPP! SAAMMMMM?!"_ he was genuinely screaming now. His throat raw from disjointed words all smashing into the walls, splintering into a million pieces around him, _fucking pathetic._

**SAM**

WHEN CASTIEL DISAPPEARED from the hallway Sam was left standing alone in the midst of dying chaos. The hallway had quieted a considerable amount; Dean's screams had lessened to a tolerable level of groaning and hiccupping sobs, as doctors and nurses began to clear the area.

"Are you alright, Sam?" One of the night shift nurses was in front of him now, her name was Brenda or Bethany or something like that.

Sam shook his head. _Fantastic,_ he thought as he looked down at the mess covering himself as well as the floor, "Yeah," he spoke quietly, "I'm okay."

"Okay." She forced a sad soft smile and nodded back. "Why don't you let me get you a pair of scrubs? You can clean up in the staff lounge after the doctor speaks to you."

Sam nodded. Swallowed hard and motioned toward Dean's room. "Hey, uh— is he good?"

"He's…" she paused for a moment, "_very _medicated."

SAM LIFTED HIS FACE TO THE SPRAY OF THE WATER—water that had long since turned cold, making his skin numb and icy to the touch. He counted to five, let out a long exasperated sigh and turned the knobs on the shower. Standing there in the silence of the small staff room, he wiped the water from his face and reached for the towel lying patiently on the countertop.

Stepping from the shower he stood in front of the bathroom mirror and swallowed hard. His face looked different now—older—dirtier. Sad. Something was off. Maybe it was his eyes. They didn't look wrong—or evil, just cold and gray. Not the way he remembered them.

Steadying himself against the counter he closed his eyes, his head was spinning—it was still hard to believe he was here. He should be finishing the paper he still owed Dr. Conrad. He should be prepping for the Introduction to American Politics Course he was set to teach as Graduate Assistant this summer. He should be doing a million things. Then again, Dean shouldn't be here either. Probably had a million things of his own to do. But here they were. _Un-fucking-believable._ Slipping into the pair of green scrubs, the nurse— Brenda— had handed over to him, he sighed.

It still didn't seem like it was real—_it seemed_—like a really bad movie he'd catch five minutes of on Lifetime Television. It was like he had been cast as the main character in some shitty drama where his life was completely falling apart. Acting out a crappy script and going through the motions as he had back when he'd been caught in the tricksters fucked up version of "fun" years ago. It still seemed almost as if he'd wake up at any time and see his Constitutional Law book staring up at him from his kitchen table demanding that he finish his paper. _Now._

It had only been one week, one very small fraction of time, and _God_ he felt like he was going to be here _forever_.

SAM SHUFFLED ALONG THE CORRIDOR BACK TOWARDS DEAN'S ROOM, a sudden wave of exhaustion sweeping over him. Giving up was an option, albeit not one he entertained for long, but he'd be a liar if he didn't acknowledge the thought had flittered across his mind a few times in the past hour. But something held him back, simple as it was, it had been one word that had cemented beyond a shadow of a doubt his need to stay; he'd heard it, lost in the screams that echoed through the hall, _Sammy._

Sam was a solid one-syllable word that represented the person he was. It was the only name ninety-nine percent of the people he knew called him by. _Sammy_ was different. _Sammy _was Dean's way of letting him know that things weren't alright—that Dean was faced with something he didn't know how to get through. Often masked in sarcasm and humor, Sam had long ago figured out that when the name Sammy was spoken, something big was going down—something was on the verge of being broken.

Sam shook his head and tried to clear his thoughts as he found himself back in the cramped room he'd been calling home for a week now. Let himself slide into the bedside chair the nursing staff had left behind after the panic had passed and exhaled. Dean would be asleep for a while. Clearing his throat he reached for the cord that had again been wrapped around the railing of Dean's bed. If Dean is too damn out of it, or stubborn, or tired, or _whatever_ to push the button— then Sam's gonna do it for him, because he won't go through another experience like tonight's, _he just won't._

IT WAS ABOUT ONE IN THE MORNING and Sam was still wide awake despite the fact that he was physically past his breaking point, when Dean opened his eyes and looked directly at him.

"Jesus Sam." Dean's voice was quiet, shaky.

Sam stared back, surprised to see Dean awake, knew that the relief he felt at hearing Dean's voice was written all over his face.

"Was it…" Dean drew in another shaky breath, "as bad as you look?"

Sam swallowed, frowned. _Worse._

It was hard to believe it was only three hours ago he'd been outside in the hallway, choking up what remained of his dinner. Two hours and twenty minutes ago he was listening to an anesthesiologist explain that it was absolutely imperative Dean stay ahead of the pain curve—_remember to push the little tan button—and often_—if they wanted to get through the next few weeks without another one of these episodes. It was only two hours ago that he was ushered to a small area that on-call residents apparently sacked out and showered in, in between being paged to emergencies, like the one down the hall. So, _yeah_, it _was_ bad. It was gut wrenching and terrifying and Sam didn't know what the hell to do.

OVER THE NEXT WEEK things settled down into a routine Sam had finally gotten the hang of. He spends the majority of his day at Dean's bed side; he's made himself the official gatekeeper of Dean's pain medication, pressing the button to release the drugs at the slightest hint Dean was uncomfortable—_which genuinely seemed to be most of the time_. It was predicable now that Dean would wake up almost every three to four hours. Sometimes he'd awaken quietly, wonder out loud a question or two that Sam would half-heartedly answer and fall back asleep without much fight. Other times Dean would wake up screaming or crying _or both_, doing his best to chase the pain away.

For the most part Sam had taken to talking and telling stories when Dean would wake up in the latter form. It was a simple distraction from the incessant sounds that were torn from Dean's throat when the worst of the pain settled in. For the most part he'd managed to stick to the past, memories from when he and Dean had been much younger, dumber, and a hell of a lot closer. On occasion Sam's reminiscing would even draw a smile from his older brother and on rare occasions a laugh, before the pain settled back in on top of them. And even though Dean never said it, Sam could see it in his eyes, a simple _thank you_.

**DEAN**

Dean tried his best to stave off the pain that he felt coursing through his body, but it was and had been damn near relentless since he'd been admitted the ICU two weeks earlier. He groaned, tried to shift his position in the bed, and fell back. _God he was so sick of this. _ Sick of doctors and nurses. Sick of lying around all day. Sick of not being able to move without wanting to die. Sick of being… _sick._

His leg was radiating pain through his body now, hot white barbs, and he dug his fingers into the sheets, twisted them around his hand. _"Sam?"_

"Hey… yeah... I gotcha man." Sam mumbled. "I gotcha."

Dean drew in a deep breath, "_It's not… it's not that bad …tonight…" _ _Completely unconvincing._

"I know…" Sam said his voice quiet, pensive. Dean could feel Sam's hand reaching up, untwisting his fingers one by one from the bed sheets, "Just breathe Dean… relax."

Dean opened his eyes, stared up at the ceiling, forcing his lungs to expand. Sam's hand had encircled his wrist now, Dean's fingers gripped his arm in exchange, relief washing over him when Sam didn't draw back—_doesn't flinch—_even as he dug his fingernails into Sam's skin.

"You know," Sam hesitated, "I've been thinking about dad lately."

Dean exhaled, found himself staring at Sam through already watering eyes.

"I remember this one Christmas. I was seven maybe eight." Sam smiled, a genuine smile, "Dad showed up at Bobby's on Christmas night fresh off a hunt—I don't know that dad even remembered it was Christmas when he came barreling in the door, but I remember being so excited to see him, you know? I had been so mad he was ditching us over Christmas, but then all of a sudden there he was… _he was there_." Sam exhaled quietly, "Anyway we had found that old Monopoly game stashed in the back of one of Bobby's closets earlier that week, and we were playing it that night, you remember?"

Dean nodded, choked back the rising pain, "Yeah."

~Then~

December 1990

_The day school had let out for Christmas break the Winchester boys had found themselves back at the familiar two story house on Bobby Singers property just outside of Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Their father hadn't been in the greatest of moods when he'd dropped them off, something about his latest hunt was wearing him thin, and after the way he'd yelled at Bobby before taking off in the Impala, Dean was pretty sure John Winchester wouldn't be making a reappearance any sooner than he had too._

_So it had honestly come as a complete surprise when four days later his father had stumbled through Bobby's front door looking entirely worn and half dead. Sam was still young enough at the time that he'd thrown himself at their dad, much in the same way that Dean had wanted to, but knew at age eleven he didn't have the luxury of doing it any longer. _

_"What have you boys been up to?" John's voice was gruff, sturdy._

_Sam was already pulling him through the house, chirping on and on about a game of Monopoly they'd started earlier in the night, begging John to start a new game, to play one game—_just one_._

_Dean had stayed seated at the table, spinning the small silver car token around on the small Park Place Square. He still owed Sam $35 in rent. _

_"Dean," A strong hand landed softly on top of his head, messing up his hair, "You boys giving Bobby any grief?" _

_Dean smirked seeing Bobby emerge from the kitchen with two cups of coffee and a small silver flask, "Yeah dad lots."_

_John smiled a hearty appreciative smile, "Good. God knows he needs it."_

_"So how'd the hunt go dad?" Dean asked. Always desperate to know the details, to feel like he had something to cling to, something to remember his father by… _just in case.

Just in case.

_John nodded catching the undercurrent of concern in his son's voice. Letting the smile fall from his face he cleared his throated, "Taken care of Dean. No need to worry."_

_"Dad?" Sam's voice was back, insistent, irritating, "Monopoly?" _

_John groaned, took the cup of coffee from Bobby, looked at his boys and sighed, "Why not?"_

~Now~

May 2010

"So we're all playing monopoly. God knows what Bobby keeps putting in dads cup, 'cause he's gotta be three sheets to the wind like thirty minutes in." Sam laughed, "At some point a few hours in dad tries to buy one of the properties and he barely has any money… realizes that the game had been rigged from the git—that you were taking all of his money—stealing from off the top of his pile when he wasn't looking, but instead of getting all pissed like normal he just… _laughed_." Dean stared at his brother, watching Sam as he talked about their father. For all the years that Dean had listened to Sam's stories of anger and mistrust directed at John Winchester, it felt odd to be listening to a story that played back a time when Sam had remembered the good in their father.

Dean closed his eyes; let his grip around Sam's arm slip. "He did that sometimes Sam." Dean's voice was quiet, strained. "He_ laughed_."

Sam shrugged, tossing the statement to the side, "Not like that."

_Sure Sam. Whatever. _Dean swallowed down another wave of pain. It really wasn't worth getting into a disagreement about. Sure as hell wasn't going to make him_ feel_ better.

"I'm sorry—" Sam cleared his throat, "I just… it's one of the few times I saw dad act like that… it was _different_." Dean watched Sam scrub a hand over his face, "I guess sometimes I wish I would have gotten to know him the same way you did."

Dean shook his head. _Shit._ It was hard to know where Sam was going to go with this. Either way it was time to stop this conversation before it got too out of control, too fucking personal. He'd be damned if he was going to share a chick flick moment while dressed in hospital garb and fighting off pain. "Christ Sam." He exhaled, "Do we have to talk about this?"

Sam's eye brows furrowed, "Just saying I miss him is all."

"I miss him too, okay? _A lot_." He struggled to suck in another breath, "Almost as much as I missed you."

Sam straightened up in his chair so suddenly that Dean immediately regretted the words.


	6. Chapter 6

Wow- I certainly let time get away on me with on this last update! Hopefully its worth the wait, and I promise the next update will be sooner rather than later.

I'd also like to say thank you to those of you that have been reviewing- I really truly appreciate it.

* * *

**CASS**

BY NO MEANS WOULD CASTIEL EVER CONSIDER HIMSELF AN EXPERT on human relationships, but he knows the Winchesters—he knows what their relationship had been years ago, what it was no long ago, and what it should be now—_and they had a long way to go._

For just over two weeks he'd been lurking in the corners of the ICU, watching, wishing, waiting and praying.

It had been a slow road.

A _very_ slow road.

From the beginning, just as Cass had expected, Sam had very clearly been hesitant to start a conversation that went anywhere other than the immediate present. Well, except for his story telling and childhood memories, that was. Sam had always been infuriating in that sense, refusing to tell Dean the things he should. Believing that he could avoid hurting someone he feels has too much burden already on his back. Twenty eight years of following around and worshiping his older brother and Sam still hadn't learned that what hurts Dean the most was always the secrets—_the things Sam _should_ be telling him_.

Dean on the other hand had been so in and out of delirium in the beginning he hadn't asked a single question regarding Sam's whereabouts for the past year. As much as that had been about Dean fighting through a daily fog of pain and confusion Castiel also knew that it had gone much deeper. And now, a much more coherent version of Dean Winchester was just biding time, wanting to know answers, but refusing to ask questions. Because deep down Dean's afraid, _terrified more than likely, _that saying—asking the wrong thing will force Sam into running again. For all the years Dean spent watching over his brother, for everything he knows about his brother, Dean never would let himself believe that when Sam had ran; it was never _him_ that Sam had been running from_._

As he studied them, both sleeping in what had become their respective places, Castiel felt a heavy breath fall from his lips.

These two men were really nothing more than two heartbroken kids, lost, alone, and scared.

**SAM**

IT WAS SOMEWHERE AROUND FOUR IN THE MORNING when Sam felt a presence in the hospital room and shook himself out of a sleeping stupor. Rubbing his eyes he cleared his throat and found himself looking up at Castiel who was standing guard over Dean, studying him. He wasn't really surprised to see Cass standing there, actually he was grateful, _relieved._

"Cass?" he whispered sitting up a little straighter.

There was a long silence as Cass continued to stare down at Dean. His silence forcing Sam to draw in a shaky breath as he pushed himself to his feet, wanting to know exactly what it was Castiel had found so intriguing. "Is something wrong Cass?"

"No." Cass shook his head, his voice was hushed, "I just—it's rare for Dean to sleep so soundly."

Sam nodded; he'd been witness to more than a fair share of Dean's nightmares over the years, "Yeah, well, he's about seven kinds of high right now Cass."

"I understand he'll be in surgery soon, correct?" Cass's eyes didn't leave Dean.

Sam exhaled, looked around the room, landed on the clock. "Yeah, in about two hours." Surgery number four, Sam thought bitterly, _but who was counting?_

Now that the swelling had gone down some in his leg, another operation had been scheduled to have the external fixator removed, in addition to the repairs that were needed to completely correct his injuries.

"I see." Castiel nodded, shifted his gaze to Sam. "You're worried Sam."

"I try not to be, but uh…" Sam caught himself before his voice broke, "yes." _Scared, worried, all of the above._

"His body is healing Sam." Cass divulged solemnly, "Maybe not to the degree you'd like, or as quickly as you'd like, but it is."

Sam swallowed hard shoving his hands in his pockets, "Okay." It was more or less comforting. Probably more along the lines of less, but in any respect Sam was glad to hear the news.

"Sam," Castiel continued, "I know you don't always see the reasons for my actions, but I have them."

"It's not," Sam shook his head, cleared his throat, "It's not that Cass. Look, I get it. I do. You want me to fix this. I know." Sam pressed his hands to the side of his head feeling a headache coming on, "I just don't know _how_ to do it. I don't know what to say to Dean…" Sam exhaled, looking around the room before his gaze fell back on the angel, "I'm just spinning my wheels here man. _What the hell am I supposed to say_? How do I even begin?"

Sam watched as Castiel returned his gaze to Dean, shrugging as he began speaking in a slow, precise tone, "Nothing will come of nothing: speak again."

_"What?"_

"Shakespeare, Sam." Castiel offered a rakish smile, "Shakespeare was right. You can't expect to gain anything if you give nothing."

"You're really not that much help, Cass." Sam pointed out.

Cass nodded, "I never said I was trying to be."

Sam pulled his hands from his pockets, crossing his arms over his chest, "Right." Sam closed his eyes, exhaled, "Fair enough."

"Listen Sam," Castiel began his words soft this time, "There are things you may not want to say. Things Dean may not _want_ to hear it. But I assure you that goes both ways. For starters, why don't you ask him what he was doing the night he wrecked the Impala, there's a story there… if you can get Dean to tell it."

Sam looked at Cass with quizzical eyes. Why the angel had to speak in such cryptic truth was both frustrating and compelling. _What _had_ Dean been doing that night, _he wondered, curiosity getting the best of him as he shoots a sweeping glance over Dean's still sleeping body.

Cass sighed, "In the end Sam all you have to decide is simple; is your fear of hurting your brother worth letting it pick your fate?" Cass was standing in front of Sam now, brown eyes locked on his, "You have always been strong in your own right Sam. But so has Dean. Give him credit for that—you know what has he's been through and he's still here." Cass raised a hand and rested it on Sam's shoulder giving it a gentle squeeze, "And this time Sam," he whispered, "try not to lose sight of the fact that the two of you have always been stronger together." And just like that Castiel disappeared.

FOR SEVERAL HOURS AFTER SEEING CASS, Sam had felt rattled, his heart rate jumping irregularly, as if nervous adrenaline had been shot through him. He'd replayed their conversation hundreds of times in his mind since Cass' departure, but more questions than answers had always seemed to appear. Hours later he felt like he's nowhere near the answer or resolution that he desperately sought. So when Dean was returned to the ICU from the surgical recovery room, nearly five hours after he'd left, Sam was edgy and on alert but thankful to have something—_someone_ else to concentrate on.

The surgeon had made it very clear that Dean had made it through the surgery with no complications— that everything had gone as well as could be expected. And as Sam scanned over his lethargic brother he felt satisfied that at the very least Dean had been returned in a similar condition from which he'd left, and for Sam that counted as a mental check mark in the win column.

Once the orderlies and nurses had excused themselves from Dean's room Sam found himself moving towards the foot of Dean's bed. Sam took his time as shifted the sheets away from Dean's right leg. He knew in all honesty that he didn't have the skill set of a surgeon, but he'd been patching Dean up for most of his life, and each time someone else had done the job Sam had felt compelled to make sure it had been done to his satisfaction. Dean's leg, Sam noted as he grazed a hand over it, was still distorted, bruised and swollen. But, he smiled, the external fixator was gone, replaced by an implanted steel rod—and Sam felt a rush of relief as he assessed the new sutures and pins protruding from Dean's leg. Even if the injuries were still grotesque it looked more, _normal _than _not_. At the very least, it was something Sam could look down at and not feel the panic of repressed memories crawling up his chest. Inhaling sharply, Sam shook his head satisfied, and made quick work of returning the sheets over the swollen leg.

Minutes passed by as Sam stood there silently, studying the paled features below him. He listened to a series of low groans that escaped from Dean's strong jaw line, and found himself shocked to realize he hadn't even flinched at the pain filled sounds. He wondered how in so little time he had become accustomed to the sound of Dean's discomfort surrounding him. For a moment it felt almost like it had years ago when hunting had been a natural way of life, the two of them on the road, battle tested and weary. _Pain was just part of the game._

Out of the blue, visions of Dean flashed across Sam's mind— Dean throughout the years comforting him each time a hunt went wrong, his voice strong and easing, _'Hey it's okay Sammy.' 'Take it easy will ya?'_ He watched more scenes flash through his mind, saw Dean looking down at him after he'd said 'yes' to Michael, he saw the way Dean's eyes had changed as he looked down at Sam bleeding on the floor. He saw the look in Dean's eyes before he'd killed Zachariah. Sam saw even more images of Dean before jumping into the cage, Dean thrown back into the Impala, his voice shattered, but defiantly reassuring, _'Sammy? Sammy? It's okay, I'm here. I'm not going to leave you.'_

For a second, Sam thought he was going to lose control. He saw himself breaking down, his head in his hands, sobbing.

His head was still swimming as he looked down and saw his hands, white knuckles gripped tightly around the bed rail. Sam stared at them for long moment, wondering what the hell he was doing, _if he really was losing his mind. _Slowly he backed away and released his grip on the rail; felt the blood rush back into his hands and swallowed down the heartache that followed. He had to wonder how many times Dean had acted as the solid foundation he had always needed, how many times he'd taken it for granted, how times he was too busy trying to get out to even notice. Then he flushed as he wondered, _how many times had he failed to do the same thing when Dean needed him the most?_

Sam stared down at Dean, tears running down his face. Running a hand across his forehead, he brushed back his hair. An unsteady breath rushed out of his lungs, long and exasperated, and he closed his eyes.

'_Just take it easy Sammy'. _The words were so clear he could have sworn Dean had said them.

He found himself opening his eyes just to make sure… _no such luck. _Depressing.

_Get your shit together Sam_, he scolded himself, _this is not the time for any god-damn chick flick moments Sammy._ Suddenly he felt an out of place laugh rise in his throat. It was thick and low and lasted far too long, but it felt damn good. It's hard to put into words how much he'd missed his brother —_his brothers annoyingly over-used aphorisms. Everything about him._

Sam exhaled slowly. There was so much shit that needed to be sorted out. He hoped that Cass had been right, he wanted to think—wanted to believe that the two of them could muddle their way through and come out intact on the other end.

**DEAN**

DEAN WAS RELIEVED WHEN HE'D COME OUT FULLY OF THE ANESTHESIA that afternoon, first of all because the pain wasn't _that _bad; and second of all, despite the medicated state he was in, he felt more lucid than he had in several days.

Peering underneath worn-out eyelids, the image of his sasquatch brother looming over the top of him was the first thing he noticed, and the second was the feeling of Sam's fingers pulling at his hair. He watched him for seconds, sure that Sam hadn't noticed, before he raised his own hand and swatted Sam's away.

"Dude, what are ya doin'?" He asked his voice sounding raspy. "Get off me."

Sam smiled, and patted the side of his face and shook his head, "Just thinkin'," Sam replied capriciously, "about how bad you need a haircut, man."

Dean watched him for a long minute not sure what he should say to that. It was weird, he thought, the way Sam was acting, _all_ _detached and_ _light hearted at the same time._ "You alright?"

Sam scoffed at the question, laughed a little, "Honestly?" He shrugged, nodding. "Probably not."

Dean nodded, felt like he could understand that on twenty different levels_._ Every hour was a friggin' adventure in this place; he thought despondently, most of the adventures seemingly had to end in his misery. Shit, he couldn't tell to begin with if he was supposed to be screaming, crying or passed the hell out at any given moment.

He exhaled, looked down and noted the absence of the external fixator around his leg, "Hey, Sam," he began, "You look at my leg yet? Does it still look like Lizzy Borden got ahold of it?" he askedas he tried with limited success to push himself upward on the soft mattress.

"Lizzy Borden?" Sam smiled, "Really? It was more like a wood chipper Dean." Sam offered, taking a seat at Dean's side. "And yes I checked, it's better. How's it feel?"

"It's gonna hurt like a bitch in about an hour." Dean grinned up at Sam; he knew he looked like an idiot, but didn't care. "But it's okay now…"

"Higher than a kite, huh?"

Dean nodded in the affirmative, "I'm gonna marry an anesthesiologist one day Sam." He replied.

Sam returned his amusement and laughed, shaking his head, "Yeah, well, Lisa might have a problem with that don't ya think?"

Dean winced, felt the smile fall away from his face as he looked at Sam. "Right." His voice was suddenly thick, filled with sorrow.

Sam cleared his throat, from beside him. Dean licked his lips, his throat feeling dry. It seemed as if Sam could read the expression that crossed his face almost instantly and Dean felt his face flush with embarrassment.

"She was here earlier Dean," Sam assured him, his voice was damn near the mirror opposite of his, soft and soothing, "She had to go something with Ben came up. But she promised she'd be back tomorrow."

"I stormed out and left her Sam," Dean nodded, blinked away from his brothers questioning look. "She's not gonna forgive me for this is she?"

"I don't know Dean; I guess that's between the two of you."

Dean closed his eyes, sunk in to the mattress underneath him. "It won't be long. She'll ditch me too."

Sam didn't miss a beat, "I'm not going to leave you Dean."

Dean didn't miss it either, "You always do."

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A/N: As always, if you have a chance, leave a review. :)


	7. Chapter 7

Well here it goes- you've made it to the end. I want to give a huge thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read this story. And to those of you have reviewed, a huge thank you, your comments are always welcome and I appreciate the time you take to write them.

With that being said, I hope you enjoyed this story. I know I took a short cut out at the end- but to be completely honest- school starts next week and the vast majority of my focus has to shift to curriculum planning- pretty much now. I knew if I didn't wrap this story up I wouldn't be finishing it any time soon- and I thought I owed you all more than just another unfinished story. So please enjoy. And if you will, leave me a final review! Thanks, ~L

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**SAM**

_"I'm not going to leave you Dean." He'd said._

_Dean shook his head, unconvinced, "You always do."_

_And maybe_, Sam thought despondently, _he had. _ Even if he had always felt justified in his actions, felt that he had had a reason for everything—he'd never spent much time dwelling on the way it impacted anyone else. Though in retrospect, he really should have. Because as much as he had wanted to get away from a world he didn't understand or accept, he had always seemed to hurt Dean in the long run.

SAM WAS TWO MONTHS SHY OF NINE the first time it crossed his mind that he could get away from the world of crazy his father drug them through every time he uprooted the family and drug them to a new town, a new school, and a crappy new motel room. He was supposed to be packing up what little he had scattered around a dingy, poorly lit excuse for a house, when the idea snuck up on him and made him smile. His family was getting ready to take off again, a new hunt— _a different town_.

Earlier in the week Sam had been invited to a birthday party for a kid whose name he no longer remembered— but he had wanted to go something awful. He was angry and upset and _why couldn't he just be a normal kid and do things all the other normal kids did?_

So when his father had told him "no" for the "final time" and left to fill the car up with gas, Sam did something he'd never dreamt he could have done before.

Sam ran.

Three hours later his father and brother found him stuffing his face with ice cream and cake, and clearly winning a game which involved the use of a sling shot to knock bottle caps off fence posts, in the birthday kid's backyard. His father looked tired, as he stood on the opposite side of the white picket fence, his face regretful. It was as if his dad could finally see how much Sam had longed to be just another kid. "Sammy," he'd said producing a sloppily wrapped box from under his arm, "You forgot this."

Sam had taken the present with shaking hands, unsure what he was supposed to say or do. It had been like his dad was trying in advance to apologize for the inevitable move that was coming next, and it made Sam feel miserable. He didn't want to leave this town, he liked it—he liked the people. But he loved his father and his brother. And he was sorry that he had left them so eagerly hours before. He'd looked up at his father's heavyhearted smile and nodded. "I'm sorry dad."

His father cleared his throat, shoved his hands in his pockets, "You should say that to Dean, Sam." His father offered quietly, motioning across the street to where Dean sat in the Impala, "He's been worried sick about you."

Sam had left the party minutes later, after handing over the gift and explaining that his grandmother had fallen ill and his dad was waiting to take them out of state to visit. When he'd climbed into the backseat of the Impala, out of the view of anyone who might object to it, Sam had fully expected to be yelled at, maybe even slugged. But to his surprise it never came, and Sam wasn't upset when nothing was ever said about it again.

THEN AT AGE FOURTEEN Sam took his disappearing act a step further and pulled off what he had considered to be a clever and daring escape. For two weeks he had camped out in a run-down shack, eating Funyuns, pizza and drinking Pibb to his heart's desire. It was carefree and simple, and while not quite the _normal _he longed for—it was a temporary way out. It was a chance to test his resolve, to see what he could do if left to his own devices.

Of course neither his father nor Dean had seen it that way when he'd been found. His dad had come unglued this time around, read him the riot act and threatened a number of consequences should anything like this ever happen again. And while Sam had felt guilty about his disappearance and regretted the way he had hurt his father, nothing came close to what he'd done to Dean.

For an entire week Dean refused to talk to him, and on more than one occasion he'd caught Dean folded in on himself, crying. When Dean had finally decided to stop punishing him, start talking to him again, he'd only briefly mentioned how the two weeks he'd spent looking for Sam had transpired from his point of view, brushing off any of the residual feelings he'd had with his classic _'no chick flick moments'_ rule.

And again, as time had passed, and wounds healed, Sam had left the memories of those two weeks in Flagstaff behind him.

SO WHEN SAM TURNED EIGHTEEN, and had already been accepted to and made the decision to leave for Stanford, it wasn't that hard to see himself running as fast as he could toward the promise of freedom. In Sam's mind Stanford was more than an opportunity that thousands of kids had hoped for—it was his _only_ chance at making a normal life. And if by some chance he was successful, maybe his family—_most importantly_ _his older brother_— would see there was a way out of the Winchester Madness after all.

While Dean had known for months that Sam was planning his escape, it still seemed to come as a complete shock to him. Sam could remember the way Dean had looked at him as he'd left that night. Dean looking rattled, eyes betrayed and silently begging him to stay. But _this_, he had realized as he stood there, duffel bag over his shoulder, _was it_. He was either going to let his family dictate his life or he was going to take a leap of faith and follow his dreams.

What Dean had no way of knowing about that night, was the way Sam's hands had shook so much on the bus ride that he had taken to sitting on them in order to calm his nerves. He'd even begun crying, alone in the back of the bus, knowing that this time—_this escape_—was very different. His father wouldn't be coming to pull him back; and he could only hope that this time Dean would be wise enough to follow him forward_._

But when days had turned to weeks, and weeks to months, Sam was faced with the reality that he was truly on his own. Dean wouldn't leave their father, and Sam couldn't go back. And while Sam was grateful to have the opportunity at Stanford, he couldn't help but feel with every day that passed, the roads that could lead him back to Dean were crumbling just a little bit more.

Then out of nowhere, four years later, he was ripped away from his so-called 'normal' life. And seamlessly Sam found himself back in the world of crazy he'd been running from for years; sitting shotgun in the Impala, a familiar but terrifying place to be all at the same time. And again, days passed by and turned to weeks, and weeks to months, and it almost seemed as if Sam had never left, and years of missing his brother—and even his father—melted away, fading into the background.

NOW, AT AGE TWENTY-EIGHT, Sam sat beside his brother again, his voice shaking as he recounted the events over the past few years that had led him to make the decision to walk away nearly a year ago. As he talked, Sam couldn't help but think that as Dean listened, he too was thinking of all the disappearing acts Sam had pulled off through the years prior. And Sam knew if Dean was thinking about those disappearing acts, he was blaming himself. And if Dean was going to blame himself, then Sam had to set the record straight.

_Because this time,_ he swore, was _different. _ This wasn't him acting out or being selfish, this was a decision to walk away and let Dean have his chance at the normal life, a chance Dean had long deserved and undoubtedly always wanted.

**DEAN**

UNDER MOST CIRCUMSTANCES, well, pretty much every circumstance honestly, Dean had always been able to find a way to forgive Sam. Even at his lowest points Dean would always push past and find the strength to keep going on. No matter how black the sky seemed, no matter how hard the battle had been—he'd always found and forgave Sam in the end. Dean knew without a doubt his willingness to forgive and forget wasn't because he was a saint who had the power to grant absolution for Sam at every corner.

It was simpler than that.

Because not forgiving Sam was the same thing as walking away from him.

_And leaving Sam behind had always been like cutting his heart from his chest. _

DEAN SHIFTED UNCOMFORTABLY in the hospital bed and studied Sam's tired and shaking features before him. As Sam spoke, he listened, trying to the best of his ability to understand what was being said between the frantic tones of Sam's strained voice. For a while it felt as if he were detached from himself, watching the one sided conversation from a place far away, wondering if everything he'd heard Sam was say was a mistake. _Because_ _it had to be a mistake._ How had Sam been back for a year? A whole fucking year and— hell he couldn't pick up the god-damn phone? _Write a fucking letter?_ And worse, how could Sam ever possibly think that what _he had needed_ was a life without Sam in it? _Good Sam, _Dean thought innocuously, _just cut the heart right out of my chest._

It was hard to listen to, impossible to comprehend. If Dean hadn't been tethered down to a damn hospital mattress he was sure he would have flown at Sam, hit him right in the jaw. Not only because he was pissed, but because he wanted Sam to stop talking—to stop saying shit that wasn't making anything any better.

He wanted to scream at Sam. _Wanted to…_

But the kid was falling to pieces right there in front of him, hunched over, forearms trembling on shaking legs, eyes red and watering. _God was Sam shaking…_

_"_What have you been doing?"

Sam stared back at him, his face twisted. Dean knew the look—guilt and anguish and anger all rolled into one.

"Sam?" Dean's voice was more insistent this time, verging on barking out an order, "Talk. Now."

_Just don't say hunting_, Dean thought angrily as he watched Sam squirm beneath the weight of his glare. _You say hunting and I will kick your ass._

Sam shifted again; eyes locked onto Dean, and this time he cleared his throat. "Indiana University," he said, "Law School."

Dean felt his body jerk. Felt the pain that radiated back from his leg, letting him know that the residual anesthesia was wearing off. Letting him know that _everything_ was about to go south. He shook his head, ignoring the feeling of his heartbeat pounding in his leg as a bitterly relieved feeling built up inside his chest.

_"Law School? _Shit."Dean wanted to laugh, but it wasn't laughter that came out, instead a strangled angry noise that escaped his throat as he sank deeper into the hospital bed, rubbed a hand across his face. "Wow…" Dean shook his head incredulously,"Sammy, _you ditched me_ for school, _again_?"

He wasn't sure what he had expected to hear, but... _really?_

Still, Dean was relieved, because Sam going to Law School wasn't horrible news—_it wasn't even bad news_. And yet he felt bitterness creeping up because he knew this tune already—Joe fucking College— and suddenly this was starting to sound—_to feel_— altogether _too_ familiar.

Huh. Okay. He had to get his head together.

He just didn't have a clue what the hell he was supposed to say, to do, with this information.

"Dean." Sam was shaking again, his voice rattled.

"Shut up Sam." Dean snapped, feeling his whole mouth go dry, "Is it possible that you don't remember Stanford?"

"It's not the same Dean."

"Oh, you got to be kidding me," Dean began, "Because taken from the perspective of someone whose been left the hell behind a few times, it sure feels like it Sam."

"It's not the same." Sam offered, knowing full well that Dean wasn't buying it before he stood carefully, turning to face Dean, as he rubbed a hand along his jaw line, "Not the same at all." He insisted, "Because when I left for Stanford—I left hoping you would follow. I left thinking that if I could just get away then so could you… and everything would be solved. But when you didn't show up… well, I guess the truth is I stayed because I _wanted _to_."_

"Well, I feel better now that that's cleared up." Dean muttered gripping the sheets in a tight fist, "Thanks Sam."

Sam stared at him for drawn-out, quiet moment, jaws set, chewing the inside of his cheeks, as he decided on his next move. He exhaled, looked around the small room and shook his head.

"_It's_ different this time," Sam asserted, "because this was about you. And I knew if I came back I would screw up your life and everything you were working toward. And I know you're drawing some ridiculous parallel between what I'm doing now and what I did at Stanford—convincing yourself that I did this to get away from you or something equally untrue—but I mean it Dean—I stood there and I knew I couldn't be responsible for messing up your life any more than I already had. So I made the decision and I walked away, not because I wanted to, but because it felt like it was the only option I had left. And out of everybody in the universe Dean, I imagine that you completely understand what that feels like."

For a long moment they both sat silently staring at each other. Dean knowing full well that Sam was right. He understood, because he himself had felt the same way every time he had stood outside of Sam's dorm, wondering if knocking on Sam's door was worth ruining everything Sam had worked so hard for. Dean sighed, _it still amazed him, _he thought, _the toll they had each paid, how willing they were to destroy themselves in exchange for saving the other._

Carefully Dean ran a hand over his face, pinched the bridge of his nose and swallowed. It was there, Dean knew it, just like he always had— that forgiving Sam was going to happen.

"Listen Sam," Dean shrugged, tried his best to offer up a subtle smile, "For what it's worth, we've both done some pretty screwed up stuff man." Maybe if he was lucky, Sam might even forgive him.

**CASS**

IT WOULD BE COMPLETELY REMISE TO BELIEVE that years' worth of mistrust and anger could be resolved in one night, but Castiel found comfort in the scene playing out in the small hospital room none the less. There would be more questions than answers. There would be hard decisions and even harder consequences to face. But it was a starting point, and more importantly it gave him hope. Because if the Winchester brothers could muddle through, than anyone could.

NO, FORMALLY THEY WEREN'T HIS CHARGES ANYMORE. _But yes, _Castiel told himself as he watched the two men before him, _they still were. _And if he had anything to say about it, that's how it would remain. After all, he reminded himself, he'd spent too many hours with Sam and Dean Winchester over the last few years to know that leaving them completely on their own was seriously misguided at best.


End file.
